Charity Case
2k5 - Saturday, February 12, 2026 NCC Dungeon Travelling down the dark, decrepit road, one might wonder if this part of the city was built to look old and disgusting on purpose. The road turns into a tunnel that leads deep into the ground and twists madly in a confusing pattern. The lighting appears to flicker on and off for effect, giving this claustrophobic metal monstrosity the proper look. The tunnel ends with a series of about twenty cells as well as a guardhouse. Most are secluded to keep the prisoners from talking amongst themselves. Extremely thick metal bars keep those in who need keeping in. More traditional electronic measures are available as well. There is no hint of the open air, and no hope for escape. Contents: Decepticon Standard Troops 6387 Obvious exits: South leads to NCC Arena. Southwest leads to NCC Central Hub. West leads to Mount R'Lyeh. Sideswipe has arrived. Scrapper enters the dungeon, a rather sick joy lighting his optic band. Why, he looks just like a kid in a candy store... or was that the kid who pulls wings off flies? The Constructicon has his replacement toolkit in one hand, as he's still unable to find his old one, and a datapad in the other. Scrapper intends to take very good notes on this, indeed. Vaguely, he's aware that Arachnae will probably find the notes about what he gets up to with her test subject useful, but he's not keeping them for her. Scrapper's going to take down records for his own later enjoyment, as this ought to be rather entertaining, and having a good log can help out when memories get fuzzed out and deleted to make space - another engineering problem, that. He glances around in the dungeon, seeking out his victim, er, patient? No, definitely victim, for all that he's going to be checking out the medical status of this one. Sideswipe has been left to the nominal comforts of the dungeon. Deposited here after his ignomeous capture after a severe beating, the formerly somewhat pristine red autobot lies more or less where he had been dropped. Tencity along with die cast construction has purvailed in keeping him alive. Granted he's not concious, but his systems did the proper things and shut down all but core functions to maintain a state of stasis. Scrapper spots said victim. Sideswipe's not an Autobot that Scrapper has any particular quarrel with, but an Autobot is an Autobot. It's more that good enough for the Constructicon. He removes a medical scanner from his toolkit to get a better idea of the red one's condition. Obviously, Sideswipe's unconscious, but Scrapper would like some more detail first before he sets about doing anything else. He links the med scanner to his datapad to autolog the results and takes a preliminary set of readings. You take several moments to run a medical scan on Sideswipe... =--------------------< Mediscanner Report on Sideswipe >---------------------= Energy Levels: 100% Main Systems: *INACTIVE* Combat Systems: *INACTIVE* Self-Repair Systems: *INACTIVE* Sideswipe has been beaten, blasted, lasered, tossed about and somehow he's still alive. Something about missles point blank and bladed weapons being used to not only ruin his finish, but take an unhealthy chunk out of armor and energy reserves alike. Scrapper puts away the medical scanner for a moment, and taking his own sweet time, as Sideswipe certainly isn't going anywhere, and there's no need to rush this job. He pokes around some the Autobot's injuries and opens a few panels, trying a get a grasp of Sideswipe's overall wiring system. After a bit of thought, Scrapper fishes out a rather large capacitor from his toolkit, charges it up, and links it into the Autobot's power main. There are a number of safe ways to restart an unconscious Transformer. This is not one of them. That capacitor is going to discharge a lot of current and fast. It shouldn't be lethal, given Sideswipe's sturdy structure and what Scrapper's gathered about the Autobot's electrical system, but it'll probably burn out a few of his more fragile parts. At the very least, if it doesn't burn anything out, it'll be excruciatingly painful for that brief moment of peak discharge and ache for a while after. Scrapper goes to work on Sideswipe, bringing him back to consciousness. You successfully revive Sideswipe. Sideswipe was not asleep.. was unconcious and in that twilight land of non-thinking, the only occasional twitch of mental activity involving flashes of memories that revolve most importantly around his sunshine yellow twin. The last concious memory that was retained prior to his falling down was of extreme personal discomfort and rage. Unfortunatly, as the capacitor discharges it's painful gift into systems already pressed to extreme limits of resistence, the first thing that fully comes online is, of course, his vocoder. a static hiss-pop as mind gears up, trying to make sense of the sudden influx of stimuli. Pain registers and the red car brother lets out a startled-sluggish yelp of shock and groggy surprise that cuts off into a silent hiss-whiff intake of air into parched systems before erupting into a full fledged (and as of yet, still not fully coherant) yowl of pain. "Wh.. ahh- Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!" Ah, music to Scrapper's audios, as sure as the brassy of strains of a trumpet. Seeing a wickedly cheerful Construction with a set of dubious-looking medical implements out isn't likely make Sideswipe feel any better, is it? Ah well, Scrapper never was much for beside manner, or chainside manner as the case may be. He takes another set of readings with his medical scanner, for completeness, pacing semi-circles around Sideswipe. One might be inclined to think of a shark that's scented blood in the water or a vulture that has spotted carrion from on high. You take several moments to run a medical scan on Sideswipe... =--------------------< Mediscanner Report on Sideswipe >---------------------= Energy Levels: 100% Main Systems: 1% Combat Systems: 63% Self-Repair Systems: *INACTIVE* Currently recuperating from repairs. Sideswipe twitches as he starts to wake up a bit more now that unconciousness has left vacant her vapid grip. Optics flicker and then kindle with a dullish hue of blue. Tentative strain on joints as he tries to move, finding his orientation and positioning rather uncomfortable. But, with a raspy, yet wryly amued tone, he rasps out, "Did I piss off th' medics this much?" as his head slowly turns, attempting to focus more on ther here and now. "Wh.. wait, when did you get on th' primes payroll, greenie?" Scrapper chuckles softly and answers ironically, "Oh no, you've rather made this medic's day." He pauses for effect and continues, "But I'm not on your Prime's payroll. Consider this charity work, if you will." The Constructicon raises a hand to his chin, considering where to go from here. He muses aloud, "My normal modus operandi would simply be to take you apart, but the current situation calls for something a bit more...brutal, I'm afraid." Sideswipe blinks with that groggy apperence of someone who isn't quite fully awake. Or appreciative of the situation, "Lovely." The creaking sound of joints once more being tested as he slowly pulls at one arm, testing the bonds with a languid, slowness. "Just cut to th' chase, greenie, what th' slag do you want?" Scrapper notes Sideswipe testing the bonds and snorts. He says bluntly and without any particular pride, "I designed this city. You aren't getting out." Scrapper pries open a few more panels on the red Autobot and loosely splices together some of the cables, bringing online some of his previously non-functional pain sensors. If Scrapper's going to inflict pain, he wants Sideswipe to feel it at full capacity. After all, one wouldn't design a magnificent sculpture and then cover it up. Absently, Scrapper answers, "Want? More funding would be nice...oh, of you? I just need you to suffer. That's not too hard for you, is it?" Sideswipe manages a smirk, "If you designed this place, I'm sure I'll get out sooner or later." Rakish smirk crossing his slightly pained features. Growing still, he tries to see what it is exactly that Scrapper is fiddling with, "Hey now, get your hands out of there!" Indignant tone before he tries to twist in the bonds, "Great, are you one of those sickos who gets laughs making someone hurt?" Scrapper abruptly jams in a hand, constricting one of Sideswipe's fuel lines. He holds it for a moment, giving the captive a blank stare. Then, he lets go and says quietly, "Laughs? If that's all that there is to be had. If the subject matter is so poor and devoid of content. However, and I don't expect an Autobot philistine like you to understand, I'd rather get something artistic, something beautiful out of your pain." And really, what's lovelier than seeing one of the hated Autobots consumed by spark-wracking pain? Scrapper ungently peels off a bit of the Autobot's armour, leaving the innards exposed. Then, he goes for the servomotors and slowly and deliberately backdrives the complex gearing of the mechanisms, a rather wretched way of ruining the precision motors. Sideswipe chokes back a snarl-yelp as he can feel that hand stuffing into his frame, then that sense of fuel unable to reach something important. The fingers on one hand spasm, flexing in reaction to the fuel violation. "Not.. seein'. th' funny in this.." words slip out in spastic pulses. Words, his usual means of deflecting the occasional sour mood, abandon him as the sound of gears stripping, his own gears at that, reach his audial systems just after the first tingle-tearing sensation perks it's proverbial head. The tingle shifts into something akin to road rash, long and agonizing, "N..n... Son.. of.. a... riveter..." Scrapper flicks the shovel on his back disdainfully. That's the best insult Sideswipe can come up with? How disappointing. He finishes with one servomotor, extended overtorquing leading to a final, glorious crunch as it breaks down for good. Then, Scrapper looks at Sideswipe's hands. The Constructicon 'deshells' one - the red, red 'lobster' can't like it much if he's still alive, can he? Then, Scrapper selects a keyhole saw and sets to slowly sawing through the contractile fibres - essentially the robotic tendons and ligaments - in Sideswipe's fingers. First the ones in the distal phalanges; then the medial, slowly working down the fingers. Scrapper continues blithely, "Now, if you were a medic, this," he pauses and gestures to the damage that he's inflicting on Sideswipe's hands, "would truly be torture, but it ought to approximate well enough for now." Sideswipe is working with limited capacity and major distractions. Setting his jaw with that stubborn expression of someone who's determined not to make any more noise than possible, he seems to steel himself, optics glinting. Still, as the evil green genius crunches that servomotor, an undertoned rasp comes from the red one. Optics dim then narrow as he slowly shifts his head to stare at the degloving of his had. The other hand twitches in wracked sympathy movements as the de-tendoning begins. "N.. Sick... little.. Mech.." spat out, voice rough before another sound, more akin to a rasped wince, or short lived uttering of pain takes over. Scrapper hacks through that last mechatendon a bit more violently than the last and mutters darkly, "Autobots have no appreciation for the finer things in life." He stares Sideswipe in the optics and selects a fine scalpel. The Constructicon picks up a scrap of tendon, cuts through it neatly, and then looks at the clean cut disapprovingly. "That was much too neat a break, don't you think?" Scrapper retrieves a rusted, dulled, chipped scalpel that looks like it might have seen use in the original war against the Quintessons. He sighs contently, "This is much better," and drags the battered blade lightly across one of Sideswipe's optics, just applying barely enough pressure to leave a thin scratch. Sideswipe's uncut up hand is twitching in mad sympathy with errant spasms with nowhere else to go now tht motility in the one hand has ended. Every neurofiber in that cut up hadn burns like it's on fire and he's doing his damndest not to make too much noise. But it's wearing him thin, optics dimming. Unconciousness would be a blessing right now and one he would actually welcome. Fight, ssure, he would wade into those without a thought, but this has tresspassed into darker things from ages past. "Doesnt. matter... what I think..." He tries to jerk his head away from the scalpel coming at am optic; the result, still the screech of that thin scratching, eliciting a shudder from the battered red one. Scrapper mock-scowls and chastises, "Be still!" He lightly drags the scalpel down Sideswipe's cheek. "You wouldn't want me to slip, would you?" Not trusting his victim to comply - how bothersome, that - Scrapper gets out a welder and fuses Sideswipe's neck and head in place, which ought to rather smart on its own. Then, he delicately pries out Sideswipe's optics, careful to not snap the wiring that keeps them operational. The Constructicon rather wants Sideswipe to see what he has planned next, after all. Sideswipe wince-snarls with a modicum of a choked intake-gasp of pain as neck and head become one immobile piece. He can't move his head. OPtics widen briefly as the scalpel comes for the taking and he lets out with a string of loosly connected words that could be a sentence, could be a plea to the gods of foul language to let the suffering end. "Gasket blowin, rivet poppin slaggin mismatch-" it fails and the nominally tough, the usually stalwart bravado that most of his existence shown forth with an annoying tendency towards the amusingly absurd cracks with a drawn out 'Aaa-aa-ahhhh!" The Constructicon's optics burn with dark delight and amusement. Why, he hasn't even got to the best part yet, and Sideswipe is already babbling like a factory-fresh prototype. Scrapper makes a brief mental note to get Arachnae a really, really nice mug sometime soon. He yanks out a small pair of support struts from Sideswipe's mangled hand, affixes them to either side of the red one's head, and attaches the optics to the ends of the struts, pointing back at Sideswipe's own face. Now that his victim has a lovely view of the action, Scrapper, still with that decrepit old scalpel, starts to sliver off the Autobot's facial armour, sectioning it in wire-thin slices. Sideswipe is oddly quiet for a moment, disoriented, the sense of visual movement not matching any actual body moment. The present damage causes momentary disorientation before a raspy, but wry smart assed comment comes out, "Never knew... I looked.. that good." The sense of disorientation remains, and watching as Scrapper makes proverbial luncheon meat slices out of his own featues adds to the sense of surreal pain induced haze. Scrapper continues to nonchalantly turn Sideswipe's face into scrap wire. What's underneath could have come out of a medical textbook, and when Scrapper is done - and he takes his own sweet time - he cuts into the connecting fibres that give movement and life to Sideswipe's face, again sawing in jagged little spurts, designed to hurt and mangle, all the while leaving the delicate neural wires that convey pain alone. Sideswipe watches as the surgeon turns his face into a macabre anatomy lesson. Optics brighten briefly as his un-sliced hand flexes and clenches, the other limp and sending steady agony to his core system monitors. The stripped gears add to the sharp throbbing he's fighting against. And another muffled back sound of pain is choked out of his vocoder, face unable to shift expression in attempt to further choke back the low groan. "Good thing.." voice deeper, thinner and rasped, "I'm more.. than.. a pretty.. face.." Now, when Scrapper was created (take your pick of the many origins), his makers probably didn't anticipate him putting his vast medical skills to this ghoulish use. Just goes show how things change... cities rise, cities fall, and all the while, people die... The Constructicon says agreeably, "Indeed, you're a most enjoyable diversion. I really ought to look into doing this more often...well, not with you. You only get one shot at all this." As he says 'shot', he leans forward, bringing his weight to bear with deceptive swiftness and drives the scalpel deep in Sideswipe's head, narrowly missing a number of rather vital things - microchips, fuel lines, and the like. Sideswipe gets a random thought even through the sheer amount of concentration that he has focused on not giving in to the need to scream. He hasn't been asked any questions. "Slag off, y-" His frame stiffens and twitches, pure reaction to seeing a blade being driven into his own head. Optics dim and then flicker eratically, disorientation once more taking over, intermingled and entertwined with the constant ache and pain searing his systems to odd numbness. Surreal disbelief bouys him up for a brief reach for something past this madness, his ravaged face reflected in optics that dim to the thinnest blue hue. Static hisses from his vocoder before another truncated yelp-howl is emited in brief before choked back once more to a lower thrumming static hiss. Scrapper slowly removes the blade from Sideswipe's head. a) He doesn't want to kill Sideswipe, appearances aside, and b) it's a cruddy old blade and it's jammed in there rather hard. Scrapper places a hand on the mutilated remains of Sideswipe's face, one of his fingers ending up in Sideswipe's now empty optic-socket, to steady the job, and finishes yanking out the scalpel, twisting it to finally remove it. If at all possible, the blade might have caused more pain on the way out than the way in, given its awkward removal. The rough entry seems to have snapped off the tip of the blade. Eh, it was a junker, anyway. Sideswipe can't move his heaed, can't twitch the fingers on a hand, can't move due to internal damage. He can, however, stare at the sight of fingers digging into optical sockets with rising internal horror. But still, not much in the way of sound save for bitten back yelps of startled pain when Scrapper jerks the blade out.. There is a pop-hiss static sound frm his vocoder before, raspy, wan and weak, he manages to get out, "You left.. somethin'... b'hind..." "So I did," Scrapper says levelly, knowing fully well that retrieving that errant blade-tip can wait. Instead of getting out tweezers, he now withdraws a crowbar, an ugly implement nothing like the more delicate instruments he had used to pry off Sideswipe's panelling previously. He holds it delicately for a moment. Then, the Constructicon shifts his grip, and now looks ready to tear the plating of a tank. Instead, he goes for the armour on the Lamorghini's hood, the armour that covers his car-mode engine. Sideswipe ulps... or tries to, eliciting something more like static hiss from his vocoder. Optics are begining to dim as what power was flowing through his frame has begun to grow sluggish. Pain isn't anything new, not even as the crow bar sinks tip into his chassis and he begins to feel the added stress of metal twisted and ripped from it's proper place added to the cacophony of other agonies already singing their paens to the wargods delight. It's simply another tone added to the symphony that is all that keeps him aware, periphially, that yes, he is still alive. And determined to hold on still further yet. Fingers on his non-stripped hand flex, creaking cears dry from lubricant leaks into a singular terran gesture as a laugh, a grating, harsh twist of sound etches itself out of his vocalizer. It begins with a staccatto like movement before progressing higher in pitch and tone, words spastically placed admist the laughter of one who challanges, nae welcomes death, "Part.. me out.. all y' want.. Y' parts-poor excuse for a backwoods medical hack, Y' engineerin' fraud. Loser." Scrapper pauses in de-armoring Sideswipe and snatches up his datapad. He flicks through the files and settles on one. The Constructicon holds the datapad in front of one of the Autobot's optics for a few seconds, letting him see the dense technical jargon that covers the page. Almost conversationally, like he was discussing the weather with one of his brothers, the twisted doctor says, "Oh, I am, am I? Since you're such a judge of talent, I'm going to give you a little choice. That article there - well, it's not really to my tastes, but I have an obligation to keep up with current medical breakthroughs, and there's one really interesting bit there. It..." Scrapper pauses, and gives Sideswipe a distasteful glance. Why must he be burdened with a subject who won't understand the technobabble he's about to get into? "Nevermind. Suffice it to say that it can tell me how to rewire that yappy little voicebox of yours so that you won't be able to stifle those screams. Now, I can do that. Or I can carve," he coughs, "hack, as you put it, up that engine of yours. Your choice." Sideswipe is hard pressed to focus on the sudden screen of mindless drivel (in his usual opinion) blurring into his field of vision. The laughter shifts to a rasp'd snicker, no expression available to accompany the dry sound. Optics remain a pale, washed out shade of blue, "You jus' wanna hear me scream anyway, so why all the first date slag?" Scrapper chides, "Now, now, there's a school of thought that says that getting one's subject matter actively involved in the art is very important." He leans close to the side of Sideswipe's helmet and hisses, "Personally, I think they're full of slag, but I gave you a choice. Answer me." There's a trick here - of what is Sideswipe more proud? That he's held back all those screams or that pretty little engine of his? Sideswipe's snicker quiets as he hangs there, limpening. OPtics dim further as words echo through his aching head. "No.." If he could smirk, he would be smirking. Again fingers curve into an obscene hand gesture, "Go rotate your own bearings." Scrapper cuffs Sideswipe on the head and draws back. He broods, glancing around the dungeon. The Constructicon growls, "Insolent junkheap." Then, he snatches up that rusted old scalpel he has set aside for the moment and slashes Sideswipe's tires. It seems purely petty and spiteful, even juvenile, nothing compared to his previous acts. However, there is reasoned, if contorted, thought even behind this. It *is* petty, spiteful, and juvenile. It'll show just how much fight is left in Sideswipe. Sideswipe barely flintches as his tires get slashed, the movement rocking him in his bonds somewhat. Fingers flex into a fist, however and he forces himself out of that downward spiral of pain that's beckoning him to just let go. First tire slash elicits that, the second slashing causes optics to brighten perhaps a hue more and a sub-vocalized hiss. Or was that a sharp inull of air into fulters that rasp clogged with enough detrius to choke a carborator. Scrapper watches the results of his tire-slashing,sighs contentedly, and paces a semi-circle around the bound Autobot. "No so much fight left in you now, eh?" It would be merciful to end it now. Mercy has no place in Scrapper's vocabulary, except when he's begging for it from the enemies that he makes. The Construction discards Sideswipe's hood armour, pushes away the snarls of components that shroud the engine, and studies it. Then, he selects a laser-scalpel. It's not a wreck like the metal bladed one that he used previously, but it'll burn when it cuts. Scrapper starts cutting into the engine. A medic watching would see an acceptable, if unorthodox vivisection. A carver watching would see a pattern to the slanting cuts and sharp angles. It's the indignity of not behind able to move his own head to stare at Scrapper that's beginning to wear thin. The enothre not being able to move much. And then, as the cutting begins, that white-hot lance of pain tracing on his internal mechanisms, he chokes out a reply, "'nuff.. t'.. break... you..." It's getting hard for him to think, hard for him to even form a reply, albeit screams constitute a reply, if not a coherent one. Sideswipe barely chokes back some sound, some oddity of agony that's overwhelming the stoic, stubborness that he exhudes. "I'm the one doing the breaking here," Scrapper snorts and continues his carving unperturbed. He pauses for a moment, considering his work. Then, he cuts out one Sideswipe's car mode optic sensors, carefully keeping the connection intact. He moves it up and spot-welds it in place, giving Sideswipe a view of what Scrapper's doing to his engine, should Sideswipe choose to activate that sensor. Then, the Constructicon forces the choice, tracing the circuitry back to the switching junction, and forcing the sensor on. That task completed, Scrapper continues with his vivisection, which is starting to look like a...Decepticon symbol? Sideswipe's sense of disorientation continues to grow. He wants to look and see what new horror Scrapper is pressing on him, but can't. All he can see is his own ravaged former face. Then a sense of the world shifting, mind recoiling from the addition of a sensory unit that, in this mode should not be activated. And he grows limp, failing to choke back a low moan. Slowly he tries to make sense of the lines, the gleaming cuts fresh carved into the metal, trailing thoughts in ever growing erratic patterns, trying to make sense of this new level of destruction. He can't wrap his mind around the carving, all he can see is the fresh gleam of metal after sharp blades have caressed it. And it's the realization that he can't make coherant thought patterns that starts the panic. He has a last coherant thought, that he can't focus before he lets out a low anguished noise, drawn out like a mournful, desolate cry to nothing and everything. Scrapper continues to cut away the parts of Sideswipe's engine that don't contribute to the Decepticon symbol. The medical scanner, idly set away to one side, start beeping insistently a moment after Sideswipe's low cry, drawing Scrapper away from his ghastly carving. He scratches the back of his helmet and examines the readings, muttering aloud, "Marked drop in cerebral functions... that was what I was supposed to watch for, right?" The fight is slowly going out of the red lambor twin, the disorientation and constant levels of varying agony taking their toll. Figners twitch spasmodically, optics dim and flicker and that low moan continues. It's the dizzy. And the inability to process thoughts any longer. Systems, those which had held on the longest start to falter and fail while he remains all to much concious of each one's failings. Death is supposed to be messy, it isn't supposed to linger on forever is it? Scrapper puts aside his laser-scalpel, a bit regretfully. Now, he needs to remove the laser core, keep it alive, and put it in that dead Seeker. Scrapper gets out a back-up power source for the laser core and ties that into Sideswipe's frayed and abused electrical systems, not bothering to put in resistors to make the sudden introduction of new voltage safe. He's taken so much; he can take a bit more. Then, the Constructicon starts the process of disconnecting the laser core itself. Sideswipe's concious identity of self rises out of the dancing maelstrom in one last moment of clarity. He can feel each part of himself, each line, cut, break, gouge, slice and break. He can sense as power couplings give into overload, pop-hissing into death and he can see in a cutting light of clairity that emblem carved out of his own chassis and core structure. But none make sense. That last jump in voltage lends enough surge for him to retain conciousness even as his frame works on dying. He is aware of each little death, but it makes no sense to the ragged remnant of Id and ego. Just more pain and confusion to a chaotic mind. With a final hiss of static rasping from his vocoder, a last whiff of air pulled into shutting intakes, the red lambor twin struggles no more, core functions ceasing their fight as the back up takes over for his frame. The last memory engram in his memory is that death, and a glittering cold emblem cut into still living metal. Self ceases to exist, core shifts into full stasis-memory lockdown mode. Scrapper finishes severing the connections and gingerly takes the laser core and its temporary power source over to a different section of the dungeon, where the dead seeker awaits, prepared to be imbued new life. Despite some minor frustration - that Autobot was rather wretchedly mouthy - Scrapper's had a very good time here, and he's more than happy to install the laser core into that frame for Arachnae and finish up this part of her experiment. So he pries open the seeker, finds the empty slot where the laser core would go, and sets about installing the body's new owner. Sideswipe gets to have several long moments of utter nothing to contend with. Is this the afterlife? All black and.. and.. nothing? The core gives no sparks nor rattles, nothing at all, just another part to be utilized as directed. The former body-shell of the core lies limp and lifeless, fluids slow to cease their dripping as the last remaining modicums of anything filter out onto the floor. Scrapper hooks up the laser core to the proper leads to let it give life and mind to the lifeless seeker body and checks over the life-support system that the corpse is hooked up to. The Constructicon also checks the stasis-lock on the body - having the subject awaken in a dungeon would take some explaining, and this has gone too well to botch now. After double-checking everything, he's confident that the set-up is correct, connects the last of the wires from the laser core, and disconnects the temporary power source. Now, Scrapper just needs to wait and hope... Sideswipe's core pulses once, pulses twice and then again in erratic fashion once the connections have been finalized. An erratich rhythm of energy seeping sluggishly outwards, working it's way through the lines, conduits and connections that were but not long ago sundered through pain and little systems deaths. LIke a new core from Vector sigma, each energy pulse from the main node slowly filters into connections, hesitantly, tentitavly worming it's hold on systems. A click and whirr as internal adjustments flick and clatter, power begining at first a sluggish flow before subsiding to bare minimal levels for life. Scrapper glances over at the medical scanner... and has the strangest urge to pose dramatically while lightening crackles in the background. Weird. At any rate, the seeker is alive. There. That was what Arachnae wanted, yes? Now, to get it over to where it should be. Sheesh, does he look like Long Haul? Aside from both being lime green and purple and... Sideswipe isn't coming concious anytime soon. Trauma takes time to heal and his core has a great deal of restructuring to undergo while adjusting to an undamaged frame. The memory alone of the damage is more than enough to keep self preservation protocols enacted. OOC Note: This log was part of a TP where Arachnae, who was testing nature versus nurture, used trauma to give Sideswipe, and Jazz temporary amnesia, and then she installed their lasercores into Seeker bodies, to see if they would turn out Autobot or Decepticon. Sideswipe and Jazz obviously went back to normal later.